Signs and Songs
by MockingbirdSoul
Summary: They were nothing but stolen glances and muted understanding. Nicolas/Alex. Alphabet drabbles.


Disclaimer: I do not own _Gangsta_. the manga or the anime.

Pairing: Nicolas x Alex, with guest appearances from others.

Genres: Romance, Humor

Rating: M for strong coarse language and suggestive themes.

Just a collection of unconnected drabbles/ficlets—some funny, some angsty—cause I'm testing new waters and need a convenient excuse to write cute stuff for these two. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

 **Signs and Songs**

* * *

 _A for Airborne_

It was a silly notion—born out of childish dreams and idle musings in the crooks of dingy alleys—but she sometimes wondered what it'd be like to be a bird. Alex found her eyes drawn to a passing flock of sparrows, to the fluttering of their wings against the wind, to a breadth of freedom that seemed so far out of human reach.

A distant clatter of shingles caught her attention as she rounded a corner into the main streets. When she looked up, she only barely caught a glimpse of his jacket before Nicolas vaulted over a building to his next delivery stop.

* * *

 _B for Bandages_

It was an accident—a clash of opposing wills (petty stubbornness, really) that got slightly out of hand—but the doctor was not a forgiving man.

Theo stood unerringly silent, glaring at them over the rim of his glasses as a rogue bundle of gauze rolled past his feet, the slow burn of his cigarette a sign of pending retribution. With both of their arms entangled in even more wasted gauze, neither Nicolas nor Alex could point to the other to issue blame.

* * *

 _C for Criminal_

Of all things to happen upon at the police station, Alex didn't expect to find their mugshots taped to the Chief's office wall like pictures of family. Her eyes traced over vestiges of youth in rounder jaws, shorter locks of blonde hair and black spikes, matching plasters over solemn eyes—one shocking blue, the other deep brown.

The two boys in the newspaper at Miss Joel's shop came to mind, but the feeling wasn't quite similar. They looked different, but not that much—especially not the more enigmatic of the two. _Mug, murder, blackmail_ was what the record below listed, but the familiar scowl and even more familiar apparel of bandages held an untold side of the story.

* * *

 _D for Discreet_

He was slowly, if not reluctantly getting used to all the signs of her in their apartment—small and unobtrusive, but impossible to miss. Nicolas exhaled slowly, still winding down from an afternoon workout, feeling the pull of muscles from his bent position in front of the fridge to the frown on his face at the wrapped lunch left inside.

It'd still been early when he came back to find the place empty—when the hell had she made this?

Everything else was left in its usual disorder—or purposely placed that way for his and Worick's sakes—all the way down to the last Perrier set next to the plate, topped with a little note promising to buy another crate by tonight.

Exhaling again, Nicolas reached for the plate and bottle. Well, whatever.

He plucked the note off the bottle, but hesitated to toss it away. He stared at the slip of paper marked with her girly handwriting, unsure what to do with it, unsure how he felt about finding her everywhere, even when she was nowhere to be found—probably out buying more Perrier.

* * *

 _E for Embarrassed_

Her intentions were completely innocent, so there was no reason for her face to feel so unnaturally warm. Years of experience had Alex thoroughly acquainted with all kinds of bodies—some brawny and stout, others spindly and lacking in definition, and some not even of the male variety. Such things rarely fazed her anymore.

It's just that when she offered to iron Nicolas's shirt before his meeting with Inspector Chad, she didn't expect him—all hard muscle and sharp edges—to strip it off right in front of her.

* * *

 _F for Familiar_

There were unspoken questions hanging between him and Worick—ones that Nicolas was disinclined to answer, even if the truth was plain for them both to see. He didn't know why his partner was so hung up over it. They were nothing alike. Her hair was longer, lips and figure fuller, skin darker and unblemished by bandaged wounds.

He kept telling himself that, but he and Worick both knew it was none of those things.

It must've been her eyes—older than most, glassy and scarred with the presence of drugs, always on the precipice of complete numbness.

She was still in the dark about a lot of things, but it was better that way. Her not knowing was better for all of them, for as long as she stuck around here. Worick worried for them both, him and the woman, but Nicolas didn't want to dwell on it. They were nothing alike.

That her eyes seemed to brighten every day instead of growing duller was a small comfort.

* * *

 _G for Gullible_

"I am _not_ ," Alex argued, feeling more than a little insulted by his accusation—sketchiness aside, that vendor had been very convincing.

" _You really are,"_ Nicolas signed, eyes dropping from hers to her shirtfront before he gestured at something there.

Puzzled, Alex looked down, too late to correct her mistake when his fingers seized her nose.

* * *

 _H for Hijinks_

In hindsight, a cherry-stem-tying contest between a former prostitute and a gigolo with over twenty years' experience under his belt couldn't have ended in any other way than disastrous.

For Nicolas, that is.

"C'mere Nic, be the final judge~" Worick crooned, comically puckering his lips as Nicolas held the idiot at bay with a chair. "Nicooo~"

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the woman trying and failing to hide her amusement, shoulders shaking from her laughter, lips pulled in a smile—red-stained and kissable.

* * *

 _I for Ice Cream_

"You two buy from here often?" Alex asked curiously, standing aside from the booth with Nicolas as Nina ordered her sundae. Seeing the girl bouncing at the counter, bright-eyed and eager, brought a smile to her lips. Alex remembered having a sweet tooth herself, bubbling with the kind of excitement sugary treats could inspire in a little kid.

A deep grunt brought her out of her musings, and she looked up to see Nicolas shaking his head.

" _Only her,"_ he signed dismissively.

Not a second later, Nina fluttered over to them with two bowls in hand, all smiles as she held one out for Nicolas.

"Here, Nico! The owner says it's on the house for helping him last week," she chirped. "He knows it's your favorite."

* * *

 _J for Jagged_

Sharp-toothed and feral—a smile built like an animal baring its fangs. Seeing it never failed to send cold tremors down her spine. What she thought must be pure survival instinct parsed its signal accordingly, whispering urgent warnings— _danger, unsafe, beware of dog_.

And yet, as those very teeth grazed the shell of her ear, his hot breath searing her skin while the hands smoothing down her curves lifted her off the wall and pulled her flush against him, Alex found herself wanting nothing but _more_.

* * *

 _K for Kinky_

"What I wouldn't do to be in your shoes, man," Worick said with a stupid grin, still shaking from suppressed laughter, even though there wasn't anything fucking funny about the situation.

Nicolas snarled and crossed his arms out of habit—failing to remember the extra hand attached to his. The woman stumbled towards him, catching herself with her free hand on his shoulder while his steadied her at her waist. Realizing their sudden proximity, she mouthed what he thought was a meek _'sorry'_ and backed away as far as she could. All the while, Nicolas glowered at Chad's police brat frantically searching for the spare handcuff key.

* * *

 _L for Lullaby_

They were just a way to pass time, indistinct melodies to distract her as she wandered the alleyways for potential customers. Sometimes she did it without even realizing.

Alex peeked over at the man on the hospital bed, patched up and resting after a grueling battle. The clinic was empty today, and Nicolas wouldn't have been able to hear her anyway, so it wasn't as though she'd disturb anyone.

She resumed humming a slow, familiar tune of unclear provenance amidst other misty memories. What came to mind as she drifted through its mellow notes was a glimmer of tears and an inexplicable emptiness in her arms—as if something was missing from them.

When she came to, lashes fluttering open from an unexpected slumber, Nicolas was gone. She was half-sprawled across his bed with a sheet draped over her, and a pillow tucked under her head.

* * *

 _M for Makeup_

"D-Does it look bad…?" Alex asked, discomfited by his scrutiny and the implacable glint in his eye. It was only a light application, not meant to be particularly eye-catching, and she was certain she followed the magazine's instructions correctly.

" _No, just different,"_ Nicolas answered noncommittally, and abruptly averted his gaze. Alex felt her brows dip in confusion, until she noticed the way he pursed his lips—as if trying not to smile.

"Wha—? Hey, what's that supposed to mean?!" She cried, chasing after him as he walked away, shaking his head and clearly laughing. "Nicolas!"

* * *

 _N for Nicknames_

Look, he hadn't been speaking to her specifically, only referring to her as he talked errands with Worick—whose penchant for stupid pet names had apparently rubbed off on him. Her head snapped up at the sound of her name—a variant of it, anyway—on _his_ mangled voice, just as Worick (smugly) asked when he'd started calling her _'Ally.'_

Nicolas discarded the boxes that had been keeping his hands busy, and hastily signed something about it being easier to say out loud than _A-l-e-x_ —all the while, resolutely ignoring the looks they were both giving him.

* * *

 _O for Obedient_

He wondered if she'd figured it out already. The potential power she and Worick—no matter how much his contract-holder resented it—had over him. The Three Principles were in that notebook, and if not there, she was bound to hear them elsewhere.

It wasn't like he distrusted her. She seemed different from other Normals, but he had his misgivings (he _had_ to). Even Worick didn't have a clean streak when it came to the first Article, but he was harder on himself about it than Nicolas ever was.

But then, she wasn't like Worick, either. She never demanded anything of him or anyone else—never even raised her voice as far as Nicolas could tell. Pleading eyes and fingers clutching his shirtsleeves were all she had against him.

But when she was in his lap like this, kissing him senseless, breaking apart only to mouth the word _'bed'_ where he could see it on her full lips, those pleading eyes and fingers clutching his shirtfront were suddenly all it took to make him hers.

* * *

 _P for Painkiller_

The worst of the TB's effects occurred in her sleep, where the horrible images she saw were indistinguishable from buried memories as they resurfaced from frothing floodwaters of the past, rushing through her mind like the blood in her veins, and the air in and out of her lungs when she awakened. She lay immobilized on the couch, body aching to turn over, mind too frightened of the monsters that might come for her.

When the nightmare finally faded out from reality, ebbing out of her nerveless limbs, Alex took note of the sheet covering her. She sat up carefully, legs sliding off the couch as the bottle of tranquilizer and glass of water set on the edge of the coffee table fell in her line of sight. When had that been there? She always left her meds in the desk drawer.

She pivoted around to peer through the dark, to the open door to Worick's room—still empty—and then to the stairs leading down to basement.

Shivering slightly, Alex reached for the pills. But when her hands enclosed around the bottle, a sudden warmth wrapped itself around her. Unbidden, her mind conjured impressions of steady breathing and a faint musk, of larger, stronger hands holding hers steady. Alex pulled the sheet closer to her chest, and eased out a breath.

She was no longer trembling.

* * *

 _Q for Quiet_

He wasn't a particularly talkative person. Only Worick and others of a select few seemed to break him out of that silence, to at least engage the environment with his silent language. Alex supposed in his world without sound, actions must have held more weight than words. So when he wordlessly dropped the white handkerchief in her lap, she signed a shaky _"thank you,"_ and wiped away her tears.

* * *

 _R for Recompense_

 _"That was really stupid,"_ Nicolas signed to her once they made it back to the office.

Alex frowned at his nonchalance—and at the sting of the scratch on her cheek. She'd taken worse, but not in public, and certainly not from shoppers whose snide comments hadn't been as discreet as they'd thought.

Recalling the incident soured her mood. It wasn't like _she_ was the one who'd gotten physical first (though one of them was definitely going need something for that bite mark) or like Nicolas needed _her_ to defend _him_ , but Alex never could let things like that slide.

Sighing, she lifted her hands to sign an apology, but was cut off by Nicolas dropping a box of bandages in them—and landing a swift peck on her unmarred cheek.

* * *

 _S for Shoes_

"Maybe…" Alex murmured to herself as she eyed a pair of peep-toes the same shade of deep violet as one her dresses. Ah, but the stiletto heels would be a hazard on stage—same to the peach-colored wedges that had caught her eye earlier. She already had a pair of pumps at home, but the edges were starting to fray.

Alex peeked up at the wall clock, and then to where either Handyman was waiting in the store—Worick at the counter, chatting up the owner, and Nicolas leaning on a wall not far off from the aisle she was in. When his eyes unexpectedly flicked to hers, she ducked her head. She hoped she wasn't taking too long.

Her eyes fell on a simple pair of ankle-straps with manageable heels. She tried them on—a perfect fit—and thought they might work. That is, until a sound of disagreement grabbed her attention.

"What's wrong with…?" Alex trailed off as Nicolas issued a black look at the offending footwear—which gave her an unexpected height advantage over him—and then up at her.

She wordlessly placed them back on the shelf.

* * *

 _T for Thief_

"Look, I know I'm out of practice, but can you please not—" Alex froze mid-sentence, her mind rewinding the sequence of signs he just made while amusement tugged at the corner of his lips.

"You…you really like them?" She asked, not believing her eyes as Nicolas nodded in the affirmative, and nabbed another cookie from the batch she just baked.

Alex, still slightly dazed, watched him disappear up the stairs, and absently reached for a cookie herself—only to find that he'd made off with the whole tray.

* * *

 _U for Unavoidable_

He'd told Worick he didn't want more troublesome things, didn't want more messes to have to clean up, but to no avail. His partner had always had a habit of picking up strays.

No matter how withdrawn they were at first, they always reached out. Always wondered why it was bad to play with fire when it wouldn't touch you—never realized they were the flames scorching away the distance between them and the trigger point until it was too late. All because he was stupid enough to let them.

Even now, he was letting her reach forward.

Nicolas stared at the slender fingers cradling the tags hanging from his neck, at the way her full lips wrapped around his name as she read the inscription, at her eyes when they peeked up at him through her lashes. He could see the way her breath left her in the fall of her shoulders, could feel it in the way it teased the tip of his chin and whispered at his jaw. Another step forward would close the gap, and then he'd see nothing and feel everything.

She might take that step. He might not stop her. Worick might walk in on them.

He didn't know which scenario concerned him the most.

* * *

 _V for Valence_

Alex wasn't sure what was between them—or if there even was anything, as far as he was concerned. They weren't friends. At best, she was a temporary addition to their business, a result of his partner's good will that he'd just have to put up with. She didn't expect him to extend the same kind of familiarity he held with Worick and others to her. He had his boundaries, and she respected that. His tolerance of her was more than she could ask for.

But there was something else.

A white handkerchief tossed her way. An extra Perrier bought on shopping trips. Gloved hands holding hers secure. A flash of movement and burst of glass as he saved her from danger. So many gestures and actions that she could only repay by running errands, doing housework and taking calls, and signing _"thank you"_ with as much sincerity as the motions of her hands could carry in them.

Then there were the eyes—closed off and intense, abounding with thoughts she couldn't begin to guess at, not like men from before. More and more, Alex found herself holding his gaze instead of shying away from it, searching the way he seemed to be.

Her curiosity culminated to action after dinner one night, when he suddenly and silently joined her at the sink to do dishes. The moment was fleeting, with only their two plates to wash—Worick wouldn't be back until late—but his unexpected nearness, the running of the faucet and foamy crackle of suds, and the occasional brush of his bare arm against hers were crystallized in her mind.

" _Thank you,"_ she signed afterwards, almost habitually. He didn't reply with words. There was only the split-second flicker of his eyes to hers, before he made to turn away.

Impulsively, Alex reached for the hem of his tank top, stopping him in his tracks. He turned back to her with a vaguely puzzled look in his eyes—closed off and intense, abounding with questions she couldn't begin to answer.

"I just—" she started, but faltered and pursed her lips. _"Y_ _ou don't have to_ — _I mean, I should_ — _"_ Her brow creased. " _T_ _his much_ — _I can do this much, at least."_

His eyes narrowed at her amateurish signing, and Alex sighed at her failed attempts to get him to understand. What good would it be if _she_ didn't even know what the hell she meant?

"Your signing still sucks," he eventually spoke aloud, and the uneven sound of his voice as it scraped past his vocal chords startled her.

"I-I'm not sure how to say it," Alex admitted, lowering her gaze to their feet. So much for meeting him head on.

He was quiet for a moment, adding on nothing but the sound of steady breathing before his legs carried him away from the kitchenette. She spared one last defeated glance at his retreating form heading towards his chair, and decided to turn in herself.

"Figure it out."

She stopped at the foot of the stairs, turning just quickly enough to catch his stare before it settled on the pages of the paperback he was thumbing through. He lifted one hand and strung together a sequence of signs slow enough for Alex to parse their message clearly.

" _T_ _ell me when you're ready."_

With that, he leaned back further in the chair and immersed himself in his book—a cue for her dismissal. But Alex stood rooted atop the first step for a moment longer than she anticipated. Curiously, she felt the weight of a thousand more words begging to be let from her lips before they pressed into a contemplative line.

Something that wasn't quite a sigh eased out of her before she ambled up the steps, still unsure of whatever there was between her and this man.

* * *

 _W for Withdrawal_

He thought he'd already made peace with it—the ugly truth that his entire existence hinged itself on a drug that would end up killing him anyway (if his own thrill-seeking habits didn't beat the Celebrer to it). Nicolas stared at indistinct patterns in the ceiling plaster, drifting through dull pangs and listlessness, grasping for some kind of focus.

Days like this when he collapsed on the sofa after popping a dose of downers were the worst kind of rebound. Too much time wasted, not much left to spare—not much of anything when he felt half-dead, but was probably closer to the fucking margin than he knew. And then to bear the weight of a sadness that was never his (as if being sad was going to change a damn thing).

He slid a half-lidded gaze over to where the woman knelt next to him, hands fumbling for signs he was too tired to decode, worry embedded in the furrow of her brows. Weeks ago, he'd have ignored her—might've even snapped at her to go away. He did none of those things now. Not when the barest brush of fingertips on his forehead soothed the throbbing under his skull. He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning into her touch—a reaction that seemed to embolden her, if the fingers now gently weaving through his hair were anything to go by.

(What was he doing, encouraging her like this? Hadn't he learned his lesson?)

When he opened his eyes again, it was nearly nighttime. The woman was gone (why would she have stayed?), a steaming mug left in her place on the edge of the table. Nicolas didn't reach for it. He didn't even get up from the couch, didn't move out from under the sheet carefully placed over him. His eyes flew back up to the ceiling, but he paid no attention to imaginary patterns.

He thought of soft hands threading through his hair, of blue eyes brimming with concern and a love for life—no matter how shitty a hand it had dealt her—and wondered if he'd been plagued with a new addiction.

* * *

 _X for X-rated_

Part of him was nonplussed at the idea of being caught off-guard and pinned so easily—by _her_ , no less—while the rest of him was quickly coming undone like the buttons beneath her fingertips. Her hair fell over them like a dark curtain, blocking out everything that wasn't her—her body pressing down on every ridge of his, her mouth coaxing his own into opening wider, tongue sliding over his, her nails biting mercilessly into his skin as one hand dragged its way down his torso to his belt while the other knotted in his hair.

 _"By the way,"_ she breathed on his lips before lifting herself to peer down at him—and his senses weren't at their sharpest right now, but was there something off about the glint in her eye? And then he read on her lips,

"Worick's bringing Nina over from the clinic."

The door flew open just in time for the aforementioned pair to drop their smiles and balk at the scene that unfolded before them: of Alex making a mad dash for the stairs, narrowly dodging the pillow that a very pissed (and not-completely-dressed) Nicolas violently chucked at her—while desperately clutching another one over his lap.

* * *

 _Y for Yours_

"This the Normal broad shackin' up with you two?" The storeowner peered curiously at Alex from behind the countertop. "That hooker, right? Your pal sure knows how to pick 'em."

 _"I told you. She's our secretary,"_ Nicolas signed irritably, but went unnoticed by the owner who nodded at Alex.

"And what about you? You got a name, doll?"

"Um, yes," she replied, smiling uncertainly. "I'm Alex. Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine. Not often we see a pretty face around _his_ scary mug," the owner gestured at Nicolas, seemingly undeterred by the impatient growling coming from him. "Much less a Normal. You taggin' along with him till Worick gets back?"

Nicolas opened his mouth to say something, but— _to both of their surprise_ —Alex beat him to it.

"I'm his woman," she said simply, looping her arm through Nicolas's.

She could almost feel the daggers digging into her skull from the outraged look Nicolas lobbed at her—a look that melted into one of disbelief at the meaningful smile on her face.

"That so?"

Alex turned toward the owner, and drew herself closer to Nicolas—who, in turn, stiffened helplessly. "Mm-hm," she answered smilingly.

"Huh." The owner gave them a once-over, and nodded as if satisfied with the image. "Bout time one of you boys settled down. You ain't gettin' any younger."

As if tapping out of a trance, Nicolas blinked and let out an exasperated sound. He wrenched his arm free of Alex's, dumping the rest of the store's deliveries on the counter before stalking off with a scowl. With an apologetic smile and parting wave, Alex scampered off after him, calling his name despite the wasted effort.

"Damn kids take too long to grow up these days…" The owner sighed, watching the Tag disappear down a corner, his girl hot on his heels.

* * *

 _Z for Zilch_

It was blood that first brought their paths together. A red-smeared back alley, streaks of it from the swipe of his sword, splatter from a rain of bullets on her tormentor's corpse. Oozes of it as it trickled from her nose, dripping on the concrete in her wishes to keep the handkerchief clean.

(Even farther back than that, she envisioned its white fabric crumpled and scarlet-stained in his hands).

It was supposed to end with him spilling more of hers, the final stamp on a completed mission that would have liberated them both if not for a last-minute mercy.

From then on, what they had was simple and innocuous—a mutual curiosity held in balance by buried secrets and a distant familiarity in each other. They were nothing but stolen glances and muted understanding. Parted lips and unspoken words. Restless hands and uncertain signs.

It was never supposed to be anything more.

His world was a whole new one she'd never known of in this harsh life, full of some of the warmest people she'd ever met, despite the coldness he shrouded himself in. Even then, when she placed her hand over his larger one, she felt the warmth of a man she'd come to trust in a city where faith was precious and left scars when it shattered.

They sat at the edge of _Bastard's_ stage together, content to watch friends indulge themselves in one night's reprieve, laughing and drinking—at the rate he was going, they'd have to carry Worick home, and tend to his hangover in the morning. Alex smiled, happy to have the security to know what the next day may bring.

Nicolas shifted slightly next to her. She looked over to find him scanning the room for something, eyes furtive but otherwise unreadable. Then he turned to her, leaning forward to let his lips meet hers. The moment ended not soon after it began, unseen amidst the commotion, but she treasured it for as long as she had it.

He was a survivor, and so was she. Put together, they were something more.

* * *

A/N: These clearly spiraled out of control at some point.

For anyone wondering about the line in parentheses in the Z drabble, if you look closely at the panel of Alex's flashback of an injured Nic in Chapter 26, you can see some kind of bloodied, crumpled up paper or fabric in his hand. I feel like it could be the handkerchief he tossed her in the first chapter (though it kind of looks like a rock or glass shard, so I could be wrong).

I also theorize that incident is how he got the scar on his abdomen, as the blood splatter at his side matches its location.

Anyway, tell me what you think. See you next time!


End file.
